


The Loss

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [10]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Married Couple, Married Sex, Prostitution, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While sorting through boxes of records, Hisana makes a furry friend. Rukia learns something about her past and how her sister met her brother-in-law. Byakuya and Hisana have a quiet moment together, which is promptly interrupted when tragedy strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loss

It has been such a horrendous day.

A darkness blankets her.  It fits her snuggly, clinging to her curves and dragging her down.  It fills the spaces of her mind, keeping her thoughts black and heavy.  It chills the breath, and it slows the heart.  Intermittent thuds echo in the chambers of her chest. 

 _Why me_ , she thinks grimly to herself as she pries another box of paper open. 

Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, Hisana inhales a deep breath.  Her lungs inflate to full capacity before she releases.  The dank basement air settles in her bones and slides down her throat. 

 _There are so many of them._   “Them,” meaning the boxes that seemly multiply in front of her very eyes.  No wonder the engineer was shy about giving her _all_ the data.  She has been slogging her way through it all morning. 

After receiving a brief transmission from her husband that the last of the project’s preliminary requirements passed the Chambers with little in the way of objections or modifications, she made her way down to storage to sort through the data and documents.

What a horrible idea.

She should’ve celebrated, first.

 _I really should hire someone to do this_. 

She grimaces. 

No, she doesn’t really want to hire someone to review the documents.  The fear of exposure plucks some discordant notes in her heart.  But, her hand is being forced.

 _Maybe I can delegate this task to the person who I am supposed to be grooming_. 

Ah, yes, the groomee.  Or _pet_.  She still has yet to properly consider the candidates for the position.  And, she wonders how long she can wait.  Just how dilatory can she be?  Just how _far_ can she push her luck?  Byakuya can be extraordinarily insistent—ruthless, even—when he wants. 

 _I have time,_ she decides before giving the room another glance. 

_Maybe…_

The mere _presence_ of so many boxes begins to weigh on her.  The room feels crowded, which is quite the feat given just how capacious the storage space is.  It is twice the size of his Lordship’s bedchambers.  To feel claustrophobic in what must be 5,000 square feet, is a sensation Hisana would not wish on anyone, let alone _herself_.

 _What have I gotten myself into, now?_ she wonders, miserably. 

She stretches her arms over her head and winces at the sound of her shoulders popping in her ears.  Just then—upon feeling the crackling of tense muscles and the prickling of her circulatory system waking up—she realizes that she has been sitting in rigid seiza for at least three hours, engrossed by what amounts to nothing more than _paper tigers_.

All her fears—nothing but paper.

She can hardly imagine what her husband and sister must face, what with the threat of _death_ and _bodily injury_ breathing down their necks. 

Paper cuts are her true adversary.  The rest?  Only figments of her imagination; intangible demons that roam in the noise of data, field notes, and committee discussions. 

 _THUNK_.

Hisana jolts up.  Her back is ramrod straight.  Her eyes open wide.  Her shoulders rise to her jawline. 

_What was that?_

Dusk has claimed what little natural light once peeked through the small windows lining the tops of the walls.  Now, only shadows creep down the walls to the floors and back up the walls again. 

When the muffled thudding noise returns, Hisana manages to triangulate the source of the sound.  It emanates from the right-hand corner of the room, near one of the windows, and it sounds like someone or something is throwing their weight against the wall. 

Which is exactly the case.

Hisana can hardly believe her eyes.  “Cat?” Hisana murmurs.  To her shock, a black cat stares down at her through the window.  Lifting a paw, it taps the glass. 

“You want in?”  Hisana is beside herself.  She is talking to a cat, and, even sadder, she is _expecting_ it to reply. 

Worse yet, it does respond to her question with a wide-mouthed meow.  The cat then circles before it sits.  Patiently, it watches her through half-lidded eyes, waiting for her to obey its command.

Hisana smiles at the creature and shakes her head.  “I can’t reach the latch,” she says, pointing at the release mechanism a few feet above her head. 

The cat cocks its head, and its gaze drifts to the multitude of boxes scattered across the room, some of which are stacked one on top of the other.  Clearly, it judges Hisana, and it finds her intelligence and creativity _lacking_.

“Of course,” Hisana teases and considers the configuration of boxes that would be sufficient to lift her to the window. 

 _Don’t be ridiculous_ , her inner pragmatist chimes.  Yet, despite knowing better, she feels a sudden compulsion to obey the animal’s commanding stare.

Hisana plants her hands on her hips and shakes her head.  She is being silly.  What would she do with a _cat_ in the storage room?  And, isn’t her husband terribly allergic to the animal’s fur?  At least, she thinks she remembers hearing him grumble about the beasts, referring to them as “pests.” 

Plus, she needs to get back to _work_.  Enough playing around, she tells herself.  Those boxes won’t sort themselves.

The moment she turns away from the window, however, provokes the cat to action.  It immediately springs forward and begins to follow her, stopping at a partially open window.  It mewls in her direction, and it slips an adroit paw under the window.  Gropingly, it searches for the release, but its relatively short legs cannot reach the latch at its current angle. 

It gives a high-pitched cry. 

“A little more to the right, and angle it a bit,” Hisana murmurs.  While she won’t aid and abet the animal’s breaking and entering, she doesn’t exactly want it to hurt itself either.

It is quick to follow her instruction, and, after a few attempts, it triggers the latch. 

Without hesitation, the feline slinks into the room and pushes off the ledge.  It pauses at a stack of sorted papers, and it circles the small tower, curling around the papers as it moves. 

Hisana smiles wryly to herself.  _How strange_.  _It appears to be reading…_  

She doesn’t really think it _is_ reading the documents.  It is a _cat_ , after all.

 _Anthropomorphism_ , she thinks and heaves a sigh. 

Hisana returns to work, but it is not long before the cat makes its rounds of the progress and is scrutinizing her actions.  It fashions a throne of sorts in her lap, and it looks on as Hisana peruses the data.

It isn’t _so_ bad.  The animal proves to be relatively distraction-free.  It mostly sits in her lap, and, when it gets bored, it prowls the room in silence, as if it is thinking deep philosophical thoughts.

Hisana ignores the cat, as she makes a few logs of her own.  Summaries, reflections, and thoughts fill a spare ledger situated at her knee.  The cat occasionally stops to stare down at the ledger before moving to other boxes. 

Three quiet hours pass. 

The orange and reds of dusk begin to darken as night extinguishes the last of the sun’s rays.  Hisana has finally found her rhythm when the intense cry of wood cracking against knuckle sends the cat shooting across the floor, into an empty cardboard box.  It ducks its head down, becoming one with the darkness. 

Only the short flicker of the animal’s tail exposes which box it has chosen.  The cat, however, likely realizes its error and pulls its tail down.

 _It’s hiding?  From what?_ Hisana furrows her brows at this odd behavior, but she resists the urge to chastise the beast.

“Yes,” she calls, straightening her back and tucking her hands in her lap.

“Lady Kuchiki,” the steward’s grey voice reaches her through the door, “Lady Rukia returns.”

“Thank you,” Hisana murmurs. 

She hesitates.  Dread, swift and dark, swells in her chest, and it drapes over her heart, chilling it.  Her head dips down as she reaches for her composure. 

Standing, she narrowly focuses on piecing the shreds of her resolve together.  She thinks she has almost conquered the anxiety clawing in her belly when she crosses the floor.  Before treading over the threshold, she turns and glances at the cat.  Its head pops up enough for her to see its yellow eyes skimming the top of the cardboard box.  It shares her gaze, and, discerning the coast clear, it stretches up and braces its paws against the edge of the cardboard opening. 

Hisana acknowledges the cat one last time.  She gives a small bow of her head, and her gaze flits to the open window.  “Good evening, Mr. Cat.”

* * *

 

The steward fetches Rukia from her quarters, and he promptly ushers her to Hisana’s wing of the house.  Without a word, Rukia enters the room and sits down on the cushion opposite her sister.

Hisana fills a cup of tea for her, and Rukia waits, patiently watching.  Her sister has mastered the art of pouring tea in such a way that even her stray movements carry the weight of great meaning.  But, Rukia knows better. 

Sister’s actions are graceful but rote. 

Silence wraps the siblings; its arms are heavy, and its embrace is cold.  The air, too, is heavy and cold.  Oppressive, more like it, Rukia observes as she watches her sister lift her tea bowl to her lips. 

Hisana takes small pensive sips between worried looks and frowns.  Deep creases form in her brow, and her gaze becomes piercing but unseeing.  She stares meaningfully into her own inner world, and Rukia wonders what, exactly, has engrossed her sister. 

 _Something bad_ , she thinks. 

 _Really bad_ , by the looks of it. 

Did the family say something?  Did the Chambers reject one of the Kuchiki-Shiba-Shihōin joint proposals?  Had the Konoe or Takatsukasa clans _done_ something?  Just the mention of Tadahiro Konoe seems to disconcert her sister.  Maybe he has sent a missive or transmission or, _worse_ , a gift? 

“Rukia,” Hisana begins.  Her voice is low and serious. 

Rukia’s eyes dart up to her sister.  Hisana has all the appearance of serenity, but there is a certain rawness in her expression.  Her lips compress into a tight straight line, and her jaws clench.

“Yes, Sister?” Rukia encourages with a meek voice.

Hisana inhales a deep breath.  Her small chest expands, puffing outward, and she lifts her head regally.  “There has been something that I have been meaning to tell you,” she begins, but her voice trails into the distance.  The words seem to sting Hisana, and she closes her eyes.  “I think you need to know what happened when you were a child.”

Rukia’s eyes widen, and she gulps down her tea.  Her throat tightens in response to the burning liquid, and she struggles to breathe for a moment.  “Yes,” she chokes out, trying her level best to stifle the wet cough that rises in her chest. 

Hisana is either too consumed by her own inner turmoil or too polite because she does not allow Rukia’s gasping to deter her from continuing.  “We were sent to Inuzuri together.  You were but an infant, and I was a child, scarcely an adolescent.”  She pauses, opening her eyes, but they fall to the floor.  Her brows furrow as she recalls the memory.  The recollection pains her.  The lines of her face become hard and deep, and her color drains. 

“I was so hungry, and you were hungry,” she continues with great effort, “I managed a month, scrounging for food for the both of us, but by the end of it, we were thin, desiccated and exhausted.   You barely cried, and I could barely carry my own weight.”  Her lips slope into a frown, and her eyes darken as she relives the past. 

“Our last night together, it was snowing.  It was a blizzard.  Sheets of snow stung our skin, and I dragged us to a small inn.  I was certain that we were both going to die that night.  Sure of it.  So I went to the inn as a last effort to beg for food and shelter.  An elderly couple owned the establishment, and, when I stepped across the threshold, I was a mess.  The woman took you from my arms, and she looked at you so tenderly, like you were _hers_.  I thought, then, that if I could not survive, at least you could.  She took one look at me, grabbed me by the face, and—,” Hisana pauses for a moment; the memory elicits a tortured grin, “She said I would _do_.  She took you as her own, and she and her husband sold me to pay a debt owed to a Shinigami.  I was taken to the Flower and Willow World of the Third District, and I was assigned to a lovely oiran, to learn the trade.”

Rukia gapes at this.  Words escape her.  Fly right out of her head.  All she can do is stare unhelpfully at her sister. 

And, yet, suddenly, Renji’s idle comments make sense. His words click into place in her head, unlocking what little she knew of the Pleasure Quarters. How had he figured it out before she had?  She doesn’t know, and she isn’t sure if she wants to find out. 

Hisana manages a bittersweet smile at Rukia’s wide-eyed innocence.  “It wasn’t _so bad_.  I learned the koto and the shamisen, dance, ikebana, and poetry, and I was educated, fed, clothed, and sheltered.  I was never mistreated by my mistress, and I was not required to entertain clients until I was of age.”

“Is that how you met Brother?” Rukia can’t help but blurt out.  Upon hearing the words, her hand reflexively flies up to her mouth, and she nearly topples over.  A rebuking inner voice slings harsh words in her head, excoriating her behavior. 

Instantly, she understands why the nobles at the Academy asked all those entitled questions about living in Rukongai.  It wasn’t _just_ because they were snotty rich brats (although, most of them _were_ ).  At least _some_ of them had no idea how to contain their curiosity. 

Hisana, however, smiles sincerely at the inquiry.  Not a shade of umbrage paints her countenance.  “Yes,” she says, nodding, “He was my first client.”

Rukia’s lips part as her jaw goes slack.  This seems to amuse Hisana for her smile broadens in response. 

“When I met Lord Byakuya, he was young.  I was young,” she winces slightly at the memory, “It went _poorly_.”  In a rare moment, she flushes. 

The mortification from years past still haunts her, and Rukia chuckles.  She has no doubt that her brother was not a very cooperative client.  No doubt at all.

“We improved with age,” Hisana murmurs, retaining her smile even as her gaze shyly drifts to the garden. 

“So he was your _first_?” Rukia asks, leaning forward. Her fingers curl under her sitting mat, and she stares at her sister like a dog waiting for a morsel of food to drop from its master’s lips.

Hisana blinks, a little taken aback by her sister’s eagerness to learn about _those days_.  “No,” she says, hoping she has interpreted the question correctly. “I suppose it was intended to be that way, but Lord Byakuya had ethical qualms with the disparity of power.”

“Other men didn’t?” Rukia asks, shrewdly reading the sentiments undulating below the words. 

Hisana’s eyes flick wistfully up and to the left.  “No,” she replies, clearly editing her words in the process.  “I was not a courtesan for very long, however.  Only a few years, and, even then, I was afforded the ability to reject suitors who I detested.” 

“Lord Konoe was a client, wasn’t he?”  In a stroke, it all begins to make sense—why Konoe is so familiar with Hisana and why that familiarity perturbs _both_ Hisana and Byakuya.  It also explains why Lord Konoe seems to have such a well-cultivated dislike of Byakuya.  He lost, and, whether he has genuine feelings for Hisana or not, _losing_ would have been a blow to his ego, especially losing to a rival clansman. 

“He _was_ ,” Hisana says pointedly, emphasizing the past tense with great pleasure.

“That is why Brother abhors him?”  Rukia means to _think_ the statement, but there it is, hanging above the two like an anvil waiting to drop. 

Hisana huffs a small breath and grins impishly.  “I cannot begin to speculate on _all_ the _many and multifarious ways_ in which my husband detests Tadahiro, but I imagine my _complication_ does not generate any good will between the two men.”

 _Tadahiro_. 

It is brief, but Rukia does not miss it.  Her sister is usually so careful, almost _deliberate_ , with her words, and, yet, she so casually refers to the head of the Konoe family by his first name, no honorifics. 

“Did he want you to marry him?”  It certainly seems like Tadahiro _feels_ entitled to Hisana.  He fawns over her, buys her expensive jewels, and never misses the opportunity to _touch_ her. 

“He wanted to purchase my contract at one time.  I think the result would have been concubinage had I allowed it.”

Rukia’s brows pop up at this.  _Concubinage_.  She always forgets that some of the noble families allow the males to take secondary wives.  Briefly, she wonders if the Kuchiki allow for multiple wives.  Does her Brother have a concubine?  She certainly has never heard of any _other_ woman.  But, would she have if he did? 

Hisana fills Rukia’s tea bowl before replenishing her own.  “Yes.  Concubinage is actively practiced by both the Konoe and Shihōin families.  Although, it is permissible for all noble males to take as many wives as desired,” she elaborates, astutely reading the thoughts dancing across Rukia’s face.

“Would Brother?”  The very question seems absurd on its face.  Byakuya barely _notices_ other women, and, when he does, it is for utility’s sake. 

Hisana smiles at her sister.  “The Kuchiki males do not have a history of taking multiple wives.  But, if he _truly_ desired it, I would not oppose his happiness.”

“A good thing to remember.”  Byakuya’s low baritone enters the room before he retracts the door.  He wears an amused, if not muted, expression as he locks gazes with Hisana.

Rukia startles at the sound of her brother’s voice.  Her breath catches in her chest, and she tenses _.  Also, did he just make a joke?_   The observation comes on a jumbled delay as she regulates her breathing.  Her hand clenches her chest, and her gaze drifts to her sister, who takes his jab without batting an eye.

“I didn’t say I would make it easy for you,” she retorts slyly as she begins to stand.

A small half-smile lengthens a corner of Byakuya’s lips, and his expression softens.  “Ah, I see,” he murmurs sardonically.  

She charms him with a smile before turning to Rukia.  “Lord Byakuya and I have an engagement,” she says, her voice diving a few octaves and hardening. 

Rukia can tell that her sister is not _particularly pleased_ that they have a dinner date with his family, but she conceals her displeasure well enough. 

“You may attend the dinner, Rukia,” Byakuya states cooly as he turns to acknowledge Rukia.

Hisana’s eyes widen, and she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.  A clear warning:  Avoid at all cost.  And Rukia doesn’t need to be told twice.  “Thank you, Brother, but, I have a patrol later tonight at the Thirteenth.”

He nods, approvingly.  “All is well at the Thirteenth?”

Rukia bows her head and smiles.  “Yes, Brother.  Thank you for inquiring.”

He bows his head slightly.  “Send your captain my regards.”

“Yes, Brother.”

“Be _careful_ ,” Hisana says, winking.  Clearly, she has learned Rukia’s coded language to get out of particularly gruesome affairs like family dinners.

“Yes, Sister.  I always am.  You, too!”

Byakuya raises a brow at this.  “Do not worry, Rukia.  She never is,” he sighs.

Hisana tosses him a teasing stare.  Eyes narrow and lips purse. “I adore you as well, _dear_.”  

* * *

 

Duty steals her husband before they take their seats at the repast with his family.  Damn _duty_ , leaving her to the Kuchiki wolves.  Alone.  With no ally.  Not a single friendly face among the sea of pale, dark-haired patricians.

She takes all the barbed comments that come her way with the appropriate grace required of a woman of her standing.  She merely chooses the least offensive interpretation, and she runs with it.  Mostly, she just switches off.  Silent mode has proven to be an effective method for her husband, and she plays the role of ice queen with surprising panache. 

Ice queen doesn’t particularly suit her, however.  She is warm and caring by nature.  But, being herself is a surefire way to end the night with her heart in pieces.

And, she’s had enough heartache for a lifetime.

At least, if nothing else, this experience brings her closer to her husband.  She now knows the flaying sensation of intense scrutiny, and she can only imagine that, as a scion, his inquiry was scorching and constant. No wonder he comes off so wintry.  It isn’t a personal preference or a personality defect; it is a survival mechanism.

She manages to dodge the worst of it, redirecting most of the brunt.  The hits that do land are ones that she has heard for decades.  The oldies, but goodies.  The Kuchiki Top 100. 

Tonight, it is all about  _babies_. One of the cousins—some distant relation to Byakuya—is expecting. No one says anything to Hisana  _directly_ , but the sentiments hang over her like a guillotine's blade poising for the drop. It is only a matter of time before someone broaches the topic of  _heirs,_ which is her least favorite critique.  It burns her every time.  It draws the bile to her throat, and she does everything in her mental arsenal to keep her lips sealed and her tongue still.  

It isn't as if she is purposefully eschewing her duty.  Biology is proving troublesome.  Devastatingly troublesome.

Yet, she sets her mental clock.

Last time, the family showed a peculiar amount of _restraint_ (or was it sadism?) and waited a _whole hour_ before one of the second-uncles-twice-removed asked whether she was ever planning on carrying out her wifely duties.  He then suggested they purchase a dog.  You know…for _luck_ …because they apparently have _litters_ of babies.

Someone, then, usually makes some joke about Inuzuri and curs.   She never knows how to take it.  It’s obviously offensive, but she isn’t certain if they are calling _her_ a dog or if they being ironic about her origin point and the lack of babies romping through the halls.  And, she figures if she is going to the effort of being offended, she might as well know _what,_ exactly, draws her ire.

In between forced bouts of conversation and the requisite number of insults, her mind wanders.  Cautiously, she considers her company.  She would like to “find and groom” a member of the family for the purposes of the business.  Yet, her choices all seem so _uninspiring_.

If she chooses Aunt Masuyo, she is just _asking_ for sabotage.  Might as well burn down everything right then and there.  It would be easier and quicker.  It would probably cost less money, too. 

None of the Kuchiki males will do.  Them? Taking orders?  From her?   Not going to happen.  Not in a _million_ years.  Not if the Soul King, himself, descended from the Royal Realm and crowned her Queen of Soul Society. 

This narrows her choices to nothing but the female Kuchiki cousins, of which there are _many_.  Most of the girls, however, are too young, too puerile, too loyal to Aunt Masuyo, or too preoccupied with their arranged marriages. 

She frowns as she stares at the lovely but rather witless faces of her female contemporaries.  To be born a noblewoman.  What a terrible fate, especially among the Kuchiki, where the highborn women are _carefully instructed_ _not_ _to enter_ the Gotei 13. 

Hisana presses her lips together.  She can almost feel the moment when her soul begins to permafrost.  She wonders: How long will it take to thaw this time? 

Joylessly, she bids her farewells at the end.

When she returns to the manor, she prepares tea and a small meal for her husband for when he returns.  And he could not arrive a moment too soon.  In fact, the instant he retracts the door, she is on her feet, prepared to receive him.  Her heart flutters in her chest at the mere sight of him. 

Eagerly, she meets him, and she begins. 

It is a ritual that she looks forward to every night.  Even when she is at her lowest, most ill, and most loathsome, she waits patiently, breath tightly drawn in her chest, for the moment to come to her.  He has only denied her this small pleasure three times.  The first time, he left for the Sixth shortly after taking dinner with her.  The other times, he refused after declaring her too ill to move on his account.

Each and every denial of this privilege crushed her mood and dampened her spirit. 

As he enters the chamber, she fixes him with a look.  Her eyes are eager, glistening in the dim lamp light.  She stands as if beckoned, and she meets him in the middle of the floor.  Suddenly, every fiber and tendon slides into place. 

Muscle memory serves her well.  Her skin longs for the caress of his silken robes.  Her fingers itch to unbind the bonds that keep him confined.  Her heart races when she sees him pause to wait for her to come to him.

She strides to his side, where instinct, raw and pure, rushes over her, enervating her muscles.  Her fingers nimbly trace the broad expanse of his shoulders before reaching the collar of his captain’s haori.  Caressingly, her hands slip under the coat.  He is warm, like a furnace, and he smells of the outdoors and musk.  She inhales a deep breath, letting his fragrance penetrate her, before peeling back the white fabric. 

With loving care, she drapes the garment over her arm, letting the material pool in the bend of her elbow.  It is a new addition to the ritual—another accomplishment that she must divest him of before he is ready for bed.  She smiles to herself, relishing the heat against her before placing the coat away.

Next, she unravels the windflower silk scarf from his neck.  She knows just where to tug, and it releases in a single, fluttering motion.  He stiffens slightly as the soft fabric pulls against his neck, bathing the flesh in cool silken kisses. 

She smiles at the tension that sparks under the muscles of his shoulders.  For some reason, she relishes the sight of his restraint buckling slightly.  Her caresses and tugs do not always garner such a visceral reaction, but she cherishes it when it happens. 

Wrapping the scarf around her neck for the time being, she soundlessly moves to his front.  She does not gaze into his face or into his eyes because she is certain he would melt her with a single look.  Instead, she keeps her head bowed, and her eyes shift to his hands.  With a gentle touch, she takes his right hand in both of hers.  Her fingertips glide over his fingerless white tekkō.  She strips him of the covers using long graceful strokes.  Once his left hand is free of the guards, she turns slightly to place them on a nearby desk.

When she turns back to him, her fingers brush against his obi.  She has long since memorized his knots; they are old friends now.  It does not take long for her fingers loosen the material with a few deft yanks.  The gentle rustling of fabric sings a sweet song in her ears as it pools on the ground.  Despite the numerous times that she has prepared her husband for bed, she still blushes when her hands ghost across his warm chest as she frees him from his robes.

Chastely, her gaze falls to the floor as she cloaks him in a casual robe.  It is a plain green color, and the fabric is thin enough to breathe during the warm spell.  Tucking the material just right and smoothing the wrinkles from his shoulders and back, she smiles to herself.  Her lips quiver slightly when she feels the bubble of anticipation rise in her chest, heating her, and just as her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, he kneels down.

_A deviation to the proceedings._

Her lips press closed, and she bows slightly at the knees.  He is eager to finish the ritual.  She wonders why. 

Dutifully, she begins to remove his beloved kenseikan.  Her touch is smooth and careful to ensure that she does not snag even the thinnest strand of hair as she unfastens the piece.  Her fingertips ghost across his scalp, soothing the tender area where the headpiece rested.  She caresses him for a few moments longer.  Her slender fingers rake through his glossy hair.  She hopes this will ease his weary demeanor, and she waits patiently for the tension that he carries to melt. 

It never does.

She draws an uneasy breath.  The air is sharp and piercing against her throat and it leaves a stinging trail all the way down to her lungs.  Has she displeased him in some way?  He is inordinately quiet and still, and she can feel the chill of distance cling to her robes.      

With loving care, she turns and stores every piece of his raiment in its rightful place, ever mindful of the meaning imbued in each item.  His family heirlooms represent his pride and his vow to uphold his family’s wishes.  The captain’s haori demonstrates his skill and mastery of the spiritual arts.  The Shihakushō shows his dedication as a Shinigami and his desire to uphold the natural order.

With these thoughts in mind, however, she cannot help but feel joy break over her when she locks away the reminders of his nobility and status. 

Out of sight. 

Out of mind. 

When she turns, her smile widens at the sight of him.  He is transformed.  Gone are the vestments of his pride, his scholar, his power, and his strength.  Gone is the evidence that he is more than just a man.  Right then, he is merely her husband and that has always been enough for her. 

When she crosses the floor to him, he is waiting.  She does not realize it at first.  His intentions and emotions are hidden, buried under his façade of indifference.  All she can see are the straight elegant lines of his back and the shine of his dark hair. 

When he turns to glimpse her, a languid expression masks the day’s troubles from his features.  She knows all too well that something—a duty, an obligation—has stolen his thoughts, swallowing him completely, even as he returns her gaze.

She opens her mouth slightly.  Written in her stare is an offer of tea and food.  This is a ritual after all.  She has perfected the script over their many happy decades together. 

He stops her. 

 _Another revision._  

He grasps her, closing his fingers tightly around her hand.  He does not pull her toward him.  No, that would be too vulgar, too unrefined.  But, she reads the longing in his eyes well, and she obliges, dropping to her knees next to him.

He leans down and kisses her. It begins urgently.  _Another deviation_ , she thinks.  His kisses are always sweet and gentle, deepening gradually.  But, now, he seems out of sorts, and his lips frantically search hers as he pulls her tightly against him.

Her heart starts in her chest, and she submits, not out of duty but out of need.  He easily sparks her own desire, but she restrains herself, letting him continue, enjoying the way his hands feel against her as he tries to untie her many knots.

When his lips press against her throat, she arches up, greedily begging for more, and he is quick to answer her silent pleas.  His hands, warm and large, glide under her undone robes, and she moans, urging him to continue.

He takes her in his arms fully, and he guides her to the bed.  He is always careful, and she wonders if he truly finds her so fragile.  He doesn’t treat the millennia-old heirloom porcelain so tentatively.

She reaches up, pushing back the curtain of black locks from his face.  A slight blush colors her cheeks at the intensity radiating from his eyes.  Rarely is her husband so blatant, and she wonders what possesses him so strongly.  Clearly, he desires to lose himself in the act, to repress some thought or feeling.

Exhaling a deep sigh, she shuts her eyes and pulls her silks loose.  She tells herself that she doesn’t mind.  She has used his body for respite more than once, and she would never deny him the opportunity, to return the favor.

Running her hands through his hair, her muscles spring up against his kisses.  His mouth, wet and hot, presses fast against the point of her hipbone, and she bites her lip hard, fighting the urge to wiggle against him.  “You’re teasing me,” she murmurs, curling his hair around her fingers.  The silky chill of his tresses soothe her fraying nerves as he plays her body with great expertise.  He, after all, has had many long years to master her, and he never refuses the occasion to practice and perfect his skill.

He glances up at her.  The look is fleeting, but she sees his eyes.  They are dark and dilated.  There is an emotion lingering in their depths that excite her, and her excitement only exacerbates as his hand travels up her thigh, following the curvature of her leg.

With his free hand, he parts the silks, allowing him to see her more fully.  He dips his head down, and presses his lips against the sensitive pale skin of her stomach.  She is so small and slender against him.  He relishes the way their bodies fit together, and he delights in the way she moves against him.  His kisses become bolder.  His lips part so he can taste her, so he can better feel how her muscles and sinews spark against his tongue. 

Her back arches up when he becomes too vigorous, and he stops when she flutters sporadically under him.  Lifting his head, he studies her expression and locks her gaze.  Smoothly, his hands cup her hips and pins them down, and he reaches up, kissing her brow. 

“Breathe,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

She flushes upon realizing that she, in fact, is holding her breath and has been holding her breath for a while now.  Even after these many years, she quivers with anticipation.  It is an overwhelming feeling that breaks over her, like waves pummeling a jagged cliff, and she blindly fists a hand in the sheets.

“Please,” she whispers against his shoulder as he slides a hand between her thighs.  With great expectancy, she waits for the inevitable flash of pleasure, and her legs part for him without hesitation.

The promise of pleasure, however, is broken by the cracking of knuckle against wood. 

“Milady, it is urgent.”  The steward’s low voice reaches them through the door.

She cries softly against Byakuya’s chest, pulling him fast against her to smother the noise.  Her heart stammers, and a cold frustration blows through her.  Her body rails, unsated and starving for him.

Byakuya tucks her under his chin, and he kisses the top of her head.  Desire lingers in that kiss, and it penetrates her and stokes her own yearning.  His fingers clench against her, holding her still for a few moments longer.  Fiber by fiber, she feels his body stiffen against hers as the same hunger that hounds her sears through him.

“Yes,” she manages in a pained, almost broken, voice, but her body is languorous.  It stubbornly refuses to draw away from her husband’s warmth.  Her heart thunders erratically in her chest, and her skin flinches at the _thought_ of leaving him unfulfilled. 

It takes every bit of effort to extricate herself, and, as she does, her body trembles, threatening to betray her like she had betrayed it.

She feels entirely too intoxicated to walk, to think, or to do much else as she crosses the floor.  Her fingers are quick to tie the requisite knots and smooth the resulting wrinkles from her kimono. 

She looks disheveled, and she _feels_ explosive as she draws back the door.  “Yes?” she replies in a surprisingly even voice. 

She _wants_ to scold the steward.  She _wants_ to _remind_ him that when her husband is in residence that she will fetch the servants.  She _wants_ to tell him that there is no need for interruption. 

Mostly, however, she _wants_ to cry.

She holds back her primal urge to scream.  Instead, she levels an icy glare at the steward. 

He bows obediently before her.  Opening his eyes, his gaze snaps across the room to find his lord shrugging on a robe over naked shoulders.  Immediately, the servant’s gaze retreats to the floor.  The idle glance reveals why his intrusion is so acutely felt, and his voice shakes as he speaks.  “It is Lady Rukia.  She is unwell.”

With a word, Hisana’s composure returns.  She exhales a deep breath, releasing the heated tension that has built in her muscles.  “I will attend to her at once.” 

Instinctively, she glances over her shoulder.  Byakuya’s head bows as he ties his obi.  He catches her stare and dismisses her with a nodding glance. 

She hesitates, lost in his gray eyes.  She wants to say something.  _Anything_.  The words, however, never manifest, and she winces against the emptiness of her thoughts. 

Her heart strangles in her chest as she turns to the door.

She traces the empty corridors.  Her feet know the way, and her thoughts darken.  Nothing echoes in her mind or heart.  Just a thick blanket of blackness falls over her as she approaches her sister’s room.

“Sister?” she murmurs, kneeling. 

 _Nothing_.

Hisana sits quietly, barely breathing.  A few moments pass before she _hears_ it, before her sister’s pitiful sobs reach her through the thin shoji walls.  Never one to sit idle, Hisana retracts the door and crosses into the room. 

It takes her a moment.  The tenebrous blues and blacks of twilight momentarily blind her.  At first, she feels that she is peering through a gloomy hazy, but, as her eyes slowly dark adapt, she finds her sister curled into a ball on her futon.  All she can see is the gentle curve of Rukia’s back.

“Rukia?” Hisana’s voice barely reaches above a whisper as she nears her sister. 

A silvery sheen outlines the contours of Rukia’s diminutive frame, and, as Hisana approaches, she sees the silvery lines flutter.  The fluttering appears quiet at first, but the closer Hisana draws, the more pronounced the shifting becomes.

“Rukia,” Hisana calls soothingly when she sees that her sister is hugging herself tightly and shaking like a leaf in a typhoon.  She clasps her sister’s shoulder, and, gently, she guides her sister toward her.

“Rukia!” she gasps, finally seeing the damage.  Dark splotches of blood besmirch the sides of her sister’s face.  “Rukia?” Hisana’s voice is frantic as she grabs her sister up.  With wide eyes, she stares into Rukia’s visage. 

Rukia’s round cheeks are slick, shimmering in the moonlight.  A thick patina of blood, sweat and tears mat her hair to the sides of her face.  Her lips part as her eyes meet Hisana, and her chest heaves. 

“I–I–I,” Rukia stammers between labored breaths.

Hisana pulls Rukia close to her.  Her arms wrap tightly around her sister, and she kisses the top of Rukia’s head as she waits for Rukia to find the words.

“I,” Rukia tries again, choking on her tears. “I,” another deep sob steals her voice, “ _killed_ ,” she gasps again, “Kaien.” 

Hisana blanches; her eyes widen and her breath hitches in her throat.  Did she just hear that correctly?  Her sister _killed_ Lieutenant Kaien Shiba?  Was that even possible?  Kaien is so strong, and, most of all, Rukia _adores_ Kaien.

Hisana’s brows furrow at the pronouncement, but it takes a few breathless moments for the news to sink in.

“I am so sorry,” Rukia sobs, shivering violently against her sister.

Hisana kisses her sister’s head again.  “Come,” she manages in the most resolute tone she can fashion. 

Shifting Rukia’s weight against her, she helps Rukia to the washroom.  Before shutting the door, Hisana orders a servant to fetch a fresh yukata. 

Turning on the overhead lighting, Hisana inspects her sister more thoroughly.  Rukia’s skin is a ghastly pallor, and her eyes are glazed and glassy.  The world does not pierce her senses, and her responses arrive on a delay if at all. 

 _Shock_ , Hisana observes as she begins to disrobe her sister.  Drawing the water, she is quick to clean the blood and dirt from Rukia’s shivering body.  “It’s alright,” Hisana says comfortingly as she wraps Rukia’s body in a towel. 

“I’m a monster,” Rukia murmurs cruelly to herself about herself.

Hisana gives a slow shake of her head as she pats the fabric against her sister’s small frame, careful to dry her.  “Shh,” she whispers, cupping her sister’s cheek in her hand.

Staring into the distance, Rukia places a shaky hand against her sister’s forearm.  “I didn’t want to,” she cries, tears spilling down her cheeks in a constant stream. 

“What happened?” Hisana asks, dabbing the sleeves of her kimono against Rukia’s face. 

“A hollow,” Rukia begins before losing her train of thought. 

“A mission went poorly?” Hisana asks.  She doesn’t understand, never really has understood the reality of life as a Shinigami.  She weaves together threads of knowledge that she has gained from her husband’s stories, through her work in the family business, and via the politics of the Chambers. 

Rukia gives a long shake of her head.  “Ms Miyako fell, and Kaien went to avenge her.  He couldn’t.  The hollow–it was too strong.” 

“The hollow got him?” Hisana tries to fill in the words and thoughts when it becomes too painful for Rukia.

“No.  The hollow absorbed him, and I killed him.  _I killed Kaien_ ,” she murmurs, coughing on her tears and sadness.

Hisana pulls her sister into a comforting embrace.  “You didn’t kill Kaien, then,” she says calmly.

Rukia shakes, and her grip tightens; her nails dig into Hisana’s flesh, drawing blood.  Hisana, however, does not move.  “All I can see is his face,” Rukia sobs.

Hisana tucks Rukia’s head under her chin, and she tenderly strokes her sister’s hair. 

“I killed him,” Rukia repeats as if the role is beginning to define her.  Rukia the Killer of Kaien.  Rukia the Destroyer.  Rukia the unrepentant _murderer_. 

Hisana shakes her head.  “If Kaien was absorbed then you did not kill him, Rukia,” she whispers against her sister’s inky tresses.  She rocks her sister, letting Rukia cling to her for a long while before pulling her up by her shoulders. 

Rukia’s eyes are wide open but unseeing.  Hisana knows that look.  She knows that Rukia is torturing herself on painful images and words.  She knows that Rukia’s spirit is slowly cracking under the pain.  And, she knows that these cracks need to be repaired quickly before they develop into fault lines and tear her apart.

Lovingly, Hisana dresses Rukia, and she puts her sister to bed.

Crossing the threshold to Rukia’s room, Hisana turns to the steward, who eagerly awaits her instruction. “Bring Lady Rukia tea.  Add a sedative so she can better rest.  Then, collect the data that Sangui recently delivered—it is in the records room—and bring it to my personal chambers.”  She has a sinking suspicion, but she pushes it down until she receives confirmation.

“You are dismissed.” Without a second glance, she continues down the corridor.  Her thoughts buzz loudly in her head as she nears the bedchamber.  She is at a loss for what to do, how to act, or what to say.  Her brain seemingly refuses to allow the news to sink in.  It is fear, pure and simple, and she simply cannot surrender.  

Wearily, she reaches for the door.  Her fingertips lightly touch the wooden frame, and she closes her eyes.  The wood’s chill rouses her slightly, and she peels back the door. 

Surprise crests over her when she finds Byakuya waiting for her at his writing desk.  His writing hand goes still as she enters, and he waits patiently for her to speak. 

“Kaien Shiba and his wife are gone.”  The words just spill out of her.  She can barely understand her own voice as it punctures the graceful tranquility of the room.  It feels as if someone else has made the announcement.  It all feels like a dream.  A bad one.

Byakuya stirs uncomfortably under the weight of her words before going completely motionless.  “I know,” he murmurs, turning to her.  His eyes are calm but set.

“Kaien and Miyako are dead,” she reiterates once again, more so for her sake than for his.  A mechanical clicking sound in her head reminds her that she is awake and alive.  It reminds her of grief and heartache.  “Rukia felled Kaien.”  That part of the story took some effort to relay.  Hisana wasn’t certain if it was true or if her mind had just fabricated the fact. 

“Rukia?” Byakuya murmurs.  The news unsettles him, and he sets the brush down so he can better study his wife.

“She said a hollow killed Miyako.  Kaien went to avenge her, and he was _absorbed_ by the same hollow?”  Hisana does not mean to turn the last statement into a question, but she is unfamiliar with the correct terms of art for such things.  “Is that possible?” she asks, taking a seat close to her husband. 

Byakuya clenches his jaw, and his gaze falls to the floor.  “Yes.”  His expression is remote.

Hisana pinches the bridge of her nose, hoping it will relieve the pressure building at the corners of her eyes.  “Either way, Rukia feels responsible for his death.”

“Where was Captain Ukitake?” Byakuya asks.  His voice rises defensively. 

Undulating behind his spoken question is another implicit inquiry.  Hisana guesses at this second meaning—that Byakuya finds Ukitake’s judgment in this matter wanting—but she does not pursue it.  “Rukia is not faring well.  I did not want to press her.  She seems like she could break very easily.”

Byakuya’s eyes narrow, and his lips slope into a frown.

She can tell that something unnerves him deeply.

“I will speak to Captain Ukitake in the morning,” he states resolutely.

Hisana gives a nodding approval.  “I will discuss the proper protocols with Rukia for giving condolences to Kaien and Miyako’s surviving family.”  Her lips draw to the side as she considers the social intricacies. 

Byakuya gently takes his wife’s hand in his own, and, turning her hand palm side up, his thumb traces four red marks on her forearm.  At first, Hisana does not perceive his touch.  Her thoughts are too fresh and too tangled.  Nothing seems to make sense, and she does not think the morning will bring much clarity.  But, feeling him pull the sleeve of her kimono up, her gaze falls to hands.

 _Rukia_. 

A grim smile lengthens her lips, and she places her hand against his.  “Will you hold me tonight?”

Wordlessly, he squeezes her hand. 


End file.
